


Amissus

by imochan



Series: Interluda Series [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Grieving, Hogwarts Era, M/M, MWPP, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:54:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2490176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imochan/pseuds/imochan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The car crash that actually happened, and the back porch of No. 91 Melbury Court, near Holland Park, the house with the big blue door. 1979. </p><p>(originally written 2004)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amissus

**Author's Note:**

> The Interluda Series was originally written for LJ in 2004.

“Is this,” asks Peter, shuffling, awkward silhouette in the garden. “Is this one of these things – you know, these things that don’t go away?”  
  
“Pain breeds clarity,” says Remus. “Yes.”  
  
Sirius remembers when they were 14, at Remus’s for the summer, and Peter fell off the cherry tree in the yard and broke his collarbone. The hospital was artificial-cold - it was Kings College, not St. Mungo’s, because Remus’s mum hadn’t been home – and everything was flat and sour-white; it smelled like rotten lemons, on the walls and floor and ceilings. He remembers that the chairs they sat in were plastic, and that the paint chipped under his fingernails. Remus sat very still beside him, back straight, rigid, and eyes distant, guilty, picking at the empty bag of crisps that Remus’s dad had bought them. Sirius is sure Remus’d gotten a lecture from his dad about being careful and all that, though he’s sure most of the guilt would have been there regardless.   
  
“James hates hospitals,” says Sirius, as if realizing it suddenly, because he has a photograph behind his eyelids of a skinny-boned James with freckles and a half-formed summer tan, looking, for one of the first times Sirius has record of, scared.   
  
“He hates hospitals,” he says again. “And that one time was just -” and Peter bunches his shoulders up, moves away – “he hates them.”  
  
“He won’t have to stay for very long,” Remus murmurs, and slumps down beside Sirius on the top step, so that their shoulders and hips press together. Sirius sees him watch Peter’s quiet, bent back, out by the garden gate. His eyes are fixed on something far-away, again, as if over Peter’s shoulder and past Holland Park.   
  
“She was -” says Peter, suddenly, turning.   
  
Sirius’s throat is swollen and his ears ring and he  _glares_. “Shut  _up_ , Pettigrew,” he snaps, but doesn’t feel any better for it. “Just shut the sodding hell up.”   
  
Peter’s face sort of goes narrow, and he looks away, squinting into the clouds. He shoves his small fists into his pockets. “Right,” he says, with tight, pursed mouth, and moves to go inside, and Sirius glares at the ground so he doesn’t have to watch Peter’s stupid, dirty trainers march past him on the steps.  
  
The screen door makes the squeaking sound that Mr. Potter always said he’d fix. From inside, Sirius can hear the clink of a glass, water running, footsteps and eerie cheerful-sounding floorboard creaks and --  _Fuck --_  he thinks,  _Peter, shut_  up _!_ , because it doesn’t belong anymore.   
  
“You’re a bastard,” says Remus, quietly, digging into his pocket for his pack of smokes, his jaw is white and tightened with restraint when Sirius looks over. “Can’t you just be quiet yourself if you’re going to be so mean about it?”  
  
“Fuck you,” Sirius glares into the sky.   
  
“Oh, ta, Sirius,” Remus says quietly, muffled into his hands as he cups the cigarette to light it. His face is pale, and he presses his wrist to his knee when he exhales, and Sirius knows he only does that when he’s trying to stop trembling.  
  
“Stop shaking,” he commands, reaching over and taking the cigarette, sucking on it, glaring at Remus’s long, pale fingers, which twitch a little before Remus folds them together and tucks them against his stomach. “Just stop.”  
  
He feels Remus exhale, his bare arm cool against Sirius’s elbow. Inside, Sirius hears someone – stupid, stupid Peter - turn on the old Vic, and it plays a scratchy swing song. He remembers when he watched Mrs. Potter and Remus dance to it in the hastily-cleared living room, last year, because it was Remus’s favourite song. He closes his eyes, and sees the swish of a blue skirt, twirling bare feet, and discarded heels, lying haphazard by the big, floral chair, where she fed him tea, and soup, and hugged him when he turned up, lost, and he remembers the stupid, wet stain he made on the collar of her blouse, because he couldn’t stop crying.   
  
“Are you all right?” he hears Remus ask, finally, reaching back for the stub of a cigarette that Sirius has left him, his head tilted away, braced on the railing, eyes lidded like he always is in the morning, wary and half-aware.  
  
“It’s,” says Sirius; swallows. “Not fair,” and then he hates himself, because  _Christ_ , he thinks,  _how ruddy stupid can you sound?_  
  
“It happens,” says Remus, quietly. “It happens all the time.”   
  
Sirius wants to sneer at that, because it’s not true, he thinks. How many other people in the world right now feel this way? How many other Mum and Dad Potters are there – where the driver was in the glare, because it was such a beautiful day, that morning, where they were crossing the street to get to the café on Kensington. There isn’t another James, he thinks, solidly. There’s only one and he’s -   
  
“What do I say?” he says, before he knows he’s saying it, and his tongue feels heavy, numb. “Remus,” he pleads, suddenly, and thinks – shouldn’t I be crying? – “What do I do when he comes home?”  
  
Remus inhales, exhales, braces his wrist, closes his eyes. Sirius watches when he swallows, pale bump of an Adam’s apple slipping up and down his throat. “I don’t know,” Remus whispers, flicks the cigarette away, rubs the scar that bisects his thin nose. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”  
  
“Christ,” mutters Sirius, and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Fuck you.”   
  
The record inside starts to skip; three little notes go – _beedeebee beedeebee beedeebee beedeebee beedeebee_ \- until Remus stands, slowly, and goes indoors – the screen door squeaks – and there’s a moment where Sirius knows he’s lifted the needle, where Sirius knows he’s just standing there, distant, thinking of blue skirts, and a funny mustache, because it’s quiet, because the wind stops, because the world has gone still.   
  
The song starts up again, and Sirius hears Remus’s quiet footsteps on the creaking floorboards in the hall. The screen door protests when Remus pushes it open again, and Sirius hears his voice, a little faraway: “Want to come inside, now?”  
  
Sirius pushes off from the steps, wood dry on his palms, stands slowly, as if his head is spinning, and maybe it is, he thinks, he just can’t tell, really. Remus is standing in the doorway, holding the door open, and Sirius stands just beneath him, squinting at the carpet just inside the door.  
  
“Sorry,” he says, finally, fumbling his fingers on the door latch, frowning at it.   
  
“Oh,” says Remus. “No. It’s.” And he touches Sirius’s hair, restless, absent, then his shoulder, fingers gripping at the shirt a little too tightly, roughly, because neither of them know how to comfort, because it was always James who knew, because they have to learn, now.   
  
Sirius frowns, tilting his head up, because Remus is a head taller than him, standing on the inside step, bathed in house-warm shadow, but still so pale around the edges. Slowly, like he’s weary, Remus presses his palm to Sirius’s neck, like he does with Padfoot, with the curl of two fingers over the ear, and Sirius closes his eyes, moves forward to where his arms go to brace themselves around Remus’s hips, and presses his nose to Remus’s collarbone. Remus rocks forward, arms around his shoulders, and Sirius feels the cool curve of Remus’s cheek against his jaw, the too-dry lips against his neck, and the press of the screen door on his elbow.   
  
The record crackles softly in the space after the song, and inside this moment, they’re so still, Sirius realizes, so still,  _so still_ , it doesn’t even matter that he knows neither one of them is breathing, or very brave at all. 

\---

[imo @ lj](http://imochan.livejournal.com/)   
[myuntreatedstate @ tumblr ](http://myuntreatedstate.tumblr.com/)


End file.
